Ororo Munroe, co-leader and one of the founding members of the Xavier Institute for the Gifted, sat cross legged in a large wingback chair in front of a cozy fire in the east library of the mansion, trying unsuccessfully to read the novel on her lap. Realizing she had just read the same paragraph for the third time she gave a disgruntled sigh and flipped the book over so that it cradled her thigh through the thin cotton of her light, flowered skirt. Blast that man.
James Logan Howlett, more frequently known as the Wolverine, and also a founding member of the elite group of mutant super heroes that trained at the Xavier Institute, sat in a dim section of an unsavory bar, swallowing a mouthful of stale beer and following it by slamming the brown bottle, that once housed the bitter contents, onto the bar. He rotated his broad shoulders under his red and black flannel, trying to alleviate some of the tension there. Damn that woman.
Several hours ago…
“Havin’ a good time, ‘Ro?” Logan approached the statuesque beauty, holding out a glass of champagne for her.
She smiled gratefully. “I am,” she nodded.
He smirked. “Liar.”
Ororo gave a low laugh. “If you already knew the answer, then why did you ask?”
He lifted one shoulder under his black suit jacket. “Making conversation. Myself, I hate wearing these monkey suits.”
Ororo turned, giving him her full attention. Her sapphire eyes appraised him from head to toe, then back up again, and Logan stiffened, suddenly and uncomfortably, self conscious. Only Ororo ever looked him square in the eye, only she met him head on, and though he often admired the trait in her, it was sometimes unsettling to have someone look at you like they could read your soul.
“I think you look rather debonair.” she was saying. She brushed her long, sable fingers across his lapel, smoothing the fabric. “Sophisticated.” Her mouth curved in a gentle smile. “Very handsome.”
Logan cleared his throat. “Ya don’t look so bad yerself,” he mumbled. Truth be told he didn’t think he’d seen anything as beautiful as Ororo. She looked regal and majestic in her dark blue silk gown. Thin gold chains adorned her smooth shoulders, like spaghetti straps, the dark material a smooth, solid color that complimented her skin and brought out the deep depths of her stunning eyes. Her cloud colored hair was pinned by two jeweled butterfly clips, but several wayward wisps floated bout her face and shoulders. As usual she wore no makeup, nor did she need any. Her lashes were thick and dark and ridiculously long, grazing her delicate silver eyebrows. Her lips, always a rosy hue, glistened with traces of champagne as she sipped and for a brief moment he wanted to lean into her and lick the drops from her full lips. He cleared his throat.
“Thank you, Logan,” she said, lifting the material against her thigh and giving him an impromptu twirl. “But like you, I dislike having to wear such garments. I would much prefer to be laying naked in a field of grass as opposed to hob knobbing with people whom I hope to never encounter again.”
“Hnh.” Logan gulped his champagne, a fleeting vision of Ororo laying naked flashing through his head, making his collar feel tight...among other things.
Ororo sipped the bubbly liquid from the flute in her hand, mentally cursing herself for rambling. Though she and Logan had always been very comfortable in each other’s company, tonight she felt anxious, edgy almost, feeling much the same way she felt when a storm was approaching.
Earlier in the evening, when she had spotted Wolverne enter a short time after she and Charles had arrived at the Museum her breath had caught in her throat. Not because of the suit he wore, or his semi-polished appearance, but because he looked like a caged lion. He a fierce scowl was planted on his grizzled face, his long dark hair brushed away from his forehead, with several unruly pieces sticking out, giving him a disheveled and sexy appearance. Wolverine always looked like he’d just finished ravishing someone. He looked dangerous and unpredictable. Seeing him dressed like a fop, surrounded by members of high society, reminded her that you could take the Wolverine out of the wild, but not the wild out of the Wolverine. He was a wolf among sheep.
“Whatchya thinking’, Storm?” Logan’s deep, graveled voice interrupted her thoughts.
“Nothing altogether important,” she said smoothly. After a moment she added, “This is a big night for Charles. Getting a wing of the museum dedicated to him. It is quite an achievement.”
“Hnh.”
Ororo smiled. “Eloquently put.”
Logan chuckled. “Dance?”
Ororo cast him a surprised look and he couldn’t blame her. He wasn’t exactly known to frequent the dance floor. Ororo on the other hand loved to dance. It was a secret pleasure of hers. Only Logan and Gambit knew of her dancecapades in her loft late at night.
“I’d love to,” she said.
Without another word Logan took her glass from her and set it on a nearby table, leading her onto the dance floor, where several other couples were swaying to the music. AS the found positions amongst the crowd, the song shifted, picking up a Latin beat that Ororo recognized as a popular radio tune.
No pido que todos los días sean de sol
No pido que todos los viernes sean de fiesta
Tampoco te pido que vuelvas rogando perdón
Si lloras con los ojos secos
Y hablando de ella
Logan pulled her close to him with a gentle tug on her hand. “Let’s show these old fogies how it’s done,” he suggested with a wink.
Ororo fell into step with him, a delighted laugh escaping. “You’re one to talk. You are older than several of these people combined.”
“And you’ve got no respect fer yer elders,” he scolded, tightening his arm around her waist.Ororo gasped, the feel of his chest pressed to hers momentarily making her lose her step.
Ay amor me duele tanto
Me duele tanto
Que te fueras sin decir a dónde
Ay amor fue una tortura...
Perderte
Although her Spanish was rusty Ororo understood most of the words of the song, and for a second she truly understood why the song was called The Torture. Loving someone who loves someone else, yet claims to also love you… It reminded her of Logan and Jean. Of how he loved the red haired telepath, and how she stayed with Scott, yet toyed with Logan’s affections. Though it was not done cruelly, it was intentional and Ororo wondered how he dealt with that torture every day, of seeing the woman he loved with another man.
She opened her mouth, wanting to say something nice, just to say something nice, when he spun her, his steps fluid and graceful, making her lose her train of thought.
No te bajes, no te bajes
Oye negrita mira, no te rajes
De lunes a viernes tienes mi amor
Déjame el sábado a mi que es mejor
Oye mi negra no me castigues más
Porque allá afuera sin ti no tengo paz
Yo solo soy un hombre muy arrepentido
Soy como el ave que vuelve a su nido
“You dance quite well,” she said, a bit surprised. “I had no idea.”
“There are lots of things you don’t know about me, darlin’. Now shut up and feel the music.” His thighs brushed hers.
Ororo closed her eyes, relishing the feel of his large, warm hand sliding along her spine, resting just above the curve of her backside. She lost herself in the rhythm of the music, her hips undulating into his as they moved. She opened her eyes and found herself staring into his dilated black ones. They were pressed tight to each other, not even a slip of paper able to fit between their straining bodies.
Lost in each other, their gazes locked as they tangoed, their movements natural and elegant, yet somehow primal. Ororo got the faint impression that they were performing some sort of ritual, but that thought was lost a moment later when Logan shifted his body between her leg, rolling her over his thigh, his hot breath fanning her neck as she twirled across him, her hands on his hips as she maneuvered around him.
When she was once again in front of him, Logan drew her tight, dipping her back so that her head and shoulders swung almost to the floor. He hauled her up and with deft fingers, he removed the clips holding her hair up and she swore she heard him grunt as the thick mass tumbled past her shoulders to her waist. She reached around his shoulders, threading her fingers through his dark locks, molding her body to his. Large hands cupped her ass, moving her against him and he flashed a snarl.
So absorbed in each other neither one noticed that the floor had cleared and that they were the only ones dancing.
AAaaay... AAaaay... AAaaay... Ay Ay
Ay todo lo que he hecho por tí
Fue una tortura perderte
Me duele tanto que sea así
Sigue llorando perdón
Yo ya no voy a llorar... por tí
As the song reached it’s climax, Logan reached down and lifted Ororo’s leg up to his hip, her last undulations purely uninhibited and completely scandalous. As the music died, Ororo and Logan stood still, their chests rising and falling heavily, their gazes locked, and her leg still grasped in his hand, their pelvises pressed together. Logan growled, low and deep, and Ororo sighed, tilting her head, waiting for his kiss.
It seemed she had always been waiting for him, wanting him. Deep inside she knew this to be true, but she had fought it so long, convincing herself that they were colleagues and friends, nothing more--that they could never be more, but now, holding him, feeling him, she knew. Knew without a doubt, with an absolute certainty that terrified her. She loved him.
Ororo could feel his fingers flex on her skin, felt the surge of his erection against her abdomen, heard the desire rumble in his chest, and the applause…wait…applause?
Ororo took a hasty step back. Goddess, Logan had almost kissed her. Not their usual flirtatious kisses, but a real kiss, one filled with desire and passion and all the things left unsaid over the years. She flushed to the roots of her tousled hair. She snatched her clips from the floor and hastened away, unable to look at him, knowing he knew that she wanted him. Desperately. She only hoped he wasn’t able to see beneath that to the emotions underneath the desire. Goddess, please don’t let him figure it out…she had held it in so long, kept it hidden for years. All her effort undone with a dance…
Now…
Ororo moved soundlessly across the floor of her loft, her naked body swaying to the music. She had given up on trying to read when every other sentence was interrupted by a flash of heat in her stomach as she recalled how Logan had looked at her when the dance had ended. Like he wanted her.
So, instead of spending the evening in the library, she had raided the stereo, looking for the Shakira CD, needing to hear that song again, to try and flush him from her system.
Raising her arms over her head she used her winds to lift her as she spun in the air, her moonlight hair glittering in the darkness as it fanned around her. She landed gracefully, bending and twisting with a natural elegance.
Mejor te guardas todo eso
A otro perro con ese hueso
Y nos decimos adios
No puedo pedir que el invierno perdone a un rosal
No puedo pedir a los olmos que entreguen peras
No puedo pedirle lo eterno a un simple mortal
Y andar arrojando a los cerdos miles de perlas
Lost in the heart of the music she did not hear the faint -snikt- from the man that just climbed over her balcony and now stood inside her slightly opened double doors.
Logan watched Ororo with a mixture of fascination and lust. She was breathtaking in the moonlight, her skin glowing, her flawless body making him hard on sight. Goddamn, the woman was easy on the eyes. After several beers and a few fist fights, he had calmed down enough to think rationally, or as rationally as he thought about anything, about the events at the Museum.
Dancing with Ororo had effected him in ways he had never dreamed possible. He had always found her attractive, hell, any man would, and he liked her, really liked her, which was something all on its own, because he could count on one hand the number of people he honestly liked. Ororo. Kurt. Kitty. Jubes. Jeannie. That was it. He respected nearly all the X-Men, but he had special places in his heart for those five.
Up until recently Jeannie had occupied the most room, but more and more lately he had found his mind wandering to thoughts of Ororo and whenever she entered a room, he felt at once at ease and more alert. He figured it to be no more than not getting laid for months, but even a week of bar and bed hopping hadn’t eased the ache in his heart when he thought of his white haired teammate, nor erased the smile on his face when he saw her.
Both Bishop and Gambit had gone through similar phases, crushing after the stoic Goddess, only to have her gently, but firmly let them know she wasn’t interested. But she was interested in him, Logan knew. He had smelt it. And it had been intoxicating and invigorating and he needed to see if it was a flash in the pan, a moment of weakness brought about because of the dance, or if there was more to it.
Deliberately he unbuttoned his shirt, dropping it to the balcony floor, and quickly removed his boots and pants, careful to remain silent and in the shadows so that she did not see him…yet. Once he was as naked as she was he stepped into the moonbeams spilling onto the hardwood floor, waiting for her to notice him.
Ororo spun into the air again, slowly opening her cerulean eyes as the hairs along her neck stood on end. Logan’s name was on her lips as she pictured him. For a moment she feared she had mentally snapped, that wanting him so much had made her delusional, but even after she blinked several times, the masculine, beautiful nude form of Wolverine still stood in her room, razor sharp claws extended, his chest heaving and his midnight eyes dark with desire.
Ororo‘s bare feet touched the hardwood, her heart thundering between them. “Logan…?”
One corner of his mouth tilted up. “Dance?”
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